


Between a Puck and a Hard Place

by HeartOfTheMirror



Series: On Thin Ice [1]
Category: Agent Carter (TV), Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Professions, Alternate Universe - Hockey, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Closeted Character, M/M, Mutual Pining, National Hockey League, Nicknames, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Sports, Stucky Big Bang 2016, Unreliable Narrator, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, dumb boys, hockey nicknames everywhere, in other words, no knowledge of hockey is required for the reading of this fic, this fic aims to be friendly to people who dont give a fuck about sports
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-18
Updated: 2016-09-15
Packaged: 2018-07-25 07:24:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7523740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HeartOfTheMirror/pseuds/HeartOfTheMirror
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Captain Steve Rogers is always ready to lend an assist to a teammate. Which is definitely the only reason he takes an interest in hotshot young Bucky Barnes, the Commandos' newest left wing sniper.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

  


This beautiful banner was made for this story by my friend [Rohkeutta](http://rohkeutta.tumblr.com/post/149643812339/stucky-big-bang-2016-between-a-puck-and-a-hard).

...

Steve knew a lot of the guys on the team were waiting anxiously in front of their flat screens, biting and their chapped lips, beer stained breath be-stilled as the draft results were announced. Steve, unlike the majority of his teammates, had no real interest in hearing the names of the new players. He’d know everything he needed to about the new guys when he saw them on the ice. 

Let them have a fresh start, he thought. His first coach, Mr. Phillips, used to say that you never really knew a man ‘till you saw for yourself how much he was willing to sweat and bleed in pursuit of the puck.

Steve’s mom was swishing around the condo he’d bought them with his signing bonus, wearing the flowy summer dress he’d gifted her at the end of last season. Her new medication was helping, he could tell. Before she started the new treatment she’d refused to wear anything but sweats and yoga pants around the house, even on her good days.

Every time Steve looked at his mom he was reassured that he’d made the right decision when he signed with the Commandos. Art school could wait. Sarah’s medical bills couldn’t. And now he could afford all the best paints and supplies and there was plenty of time to practice at his easel in the off-season. 

The fact that he hadn’t been able to complete anything in months was, well, kind of par for the course. He couldn’t score, he couldn’t draw, and some days he could hardly force himself to get out of bed and slump to the gym. This morning he’d told himself the same thing he’d been saying for months. “Today will be different.” 

But the canvas in front of him was still irritatingly blank. He’d been staring at his brushes for ten minutes without even putting together a pallet. He was hopeless.

“Oh, Steve!” Sarah called suddenly. Steve rushed from his art room so fast he didn’t even notice when his wet paintbrush rolled off the easel. 

“Are you okay?” he asked as his sock clad feet skidded on the slick polished wood of the kitchen floor.

“I’m fine. Stop being such a worry wart,” Sarah said, winding up a damp dish towel and snapping it at his shoulder. She hated it when he mentioned her illness. Given the way he had acted when he was sick as a child, he couldn’t really hold it against her. Rogers’s made terrible patients. 

“I just wanted to tell you, your team got the cute boy,” Sarah cooed, the traces of her accent from the Emerald Isle growing thicker as her son’s cheeks heated. Like most moms, Sarah loved embarrassing her son, especially when it came to his love life. 

A few months ago Sarah had read some magazine which purported that 80% of long-term relationships began between people who met in the workplace. She put this scientifically questionable factoid together with the fact that her bisexual son was a professional athlete and came away with her newest mission in life: find a cute boy who would pressure her only child into adopting a few grandkids for her to love on before her illness really got to the point where she couldn’t.

She’d been circling the draft prospects for weeks like a battlefield raven surveying the fallen. Like a valkyrie choosing a worthy warrior for the hallowed hall of Valhalla. 

Steve groaned when he saw a picture of Barnes’s cocky smile and hooded bedroom eyes flash on the screen next to the commentator. His mom was wrong- Barnes wasn’t cute, he was smokin’ hot, like, forge a ring to rule them all kind of hot. He could tell already that this was going to be a problem. 

He could feel his mom grinning, watching the rouge on his cheeks deepen and spread. 

“Yeah, okay, he’s alright,” Steve said, “Great stats, I’ll be glad to have him on my left wing if he gets bumped up to first line.”  
Sarah groaned. “You’re hopeless,” she told her son, playfully despairing.

“Don’t I know it,” Steve said frankly. He watched the clip of Barnes shaking Coach Hill’s hand and pulling the Commandos jersey over his impeccably pressed suit. What draft prospect dressed that good? What eighteen-year-old kid anywhere owned a silk tie and three-piece Armani? One thing was for sure, James Barnes was too damn good looking to be a hockey player.

…

“Bucky, darling, please sit still, you’ll wrinkle your suit,” Eliza said. Bucky shot her a nervous smile and she took his hand, squeezing it tightly. When he was a kid Bucky had considered Eliza his official Mortal Enemy and had been hell bent on making his father see that he didn’t need a younger, slimmer woman to replace Bucky’s mother. It took years for the two of them to come to an understanding. 

They were close now, close enough that when Bucky told Eliza the news about the draft the first thing the up-and-coming fashion designer had offered to do was buy him an outfit for the occasion. Bucky had learned a lot from Eliza about how sometimes looking good was more important to other people than actually _being_ good. 

“No one is ever there to see your all-nighters,” she was fond of saying. “But they’ll always notice if you aren’t smiling in the morning.” Bucky had always been charming but with Eliza’s help, he became the school heartbreaker. She helped him figure out how to do his hair, how to cover his zits without anyone noticing that he was wearing concealer, how to clean his equipment and pick out cologne so that he was the only teammate anyone could stand to smell after they took off their pads. Even after all her years of tutelage Bucky still rarely bought clothes without texting her pics first. 

Ten years ago, he would have knocked someone’s teeth out for suggesting that he could ever be friends with his stepmother. Now she was responsible for 90% of his social circle and media spotlight. She coached him for his interviews for hours and routinely kept a baseball hat in her purse for him to tuck over his sweaty hair post-game. He had no doubt that it was thanks to her that the words “media darling” and “heartbreaking charmer” got thrown around with his name so much. Other than his coaches and his teammates, Eliza had done more for his budding career than anyone else. That was life, for ya. 

“No matter what happens,” George said, staring at his son in that stern-faced way that meant he was trying hard not to show how close he was to tears, “I want you to know I’m proud of you. You’ve worked your ass off for this moment, son. They’d be crazy not to pick you.” 

“George,” Eliza muttered under her breath, “there are _kids_ here.” 

“Sorry, sorry Lizzy, you’re right,” George said, sniffling and fake-coughing so he could casually try to wipe the tears from his eyes without anyone noticing.

“Of course I am,” Eliza said breezily, flipping her perfectly curled hair over her shoulder. Bucky grinned at his parents’ emotionalism. It wasn’t often that either of them got really invested in what Bucky was doing. Sure, they came to all the games they could and cheered for him, congratulated his victories and paid for his gear. 

But Eliza wasn’t what you might call an avid fan of sports and George was a man who believed in the concept of “Men Being Men”. It was a philosophy that led to very little hugging but a fair number of late night talks between Bucky and his dad in George's den. Illicit cigars and brandy (or whiskey) were frequently involved as they discussed life, politics, and the importance of treating others properly (especially women and the less fortunate). 

Bucky almost didn’t care if he was drafted, just knowing that he’d made his dad cry in public was enough. Okay, so that was a lie. He very much cared if he was drafted. He very much cared _when_ he was drafted. He lived his entire life just so that he could be number one and he was damned if he was going to fall short of that coveted position now. Afterall, a man only ever had a single chance to be the season’s first draft pick in his sport. It was an honor that commentators would mention for the rest of his career if he got it- which everyone expected him to do. The only downside was that because of the way draft picks were allotted, the first and second picks always went to the two worst teams in the league. Which meant Bucky could pretty much kiss his dream of Stanley Cup glory goodbye until he got himself traded to a decent team. He wasn’t worried, though. He always achieved what he set his mind to, in the end. 

The commissioner's speech seemed to go on forever, though, in reality, it had probably only been forty-five seconds. Bucky didn’t care what Peirce had to say- making hockey “the new American pastime” or whatever- nobody was a fan of the man who ran the NHL. 

Finally, after what felt like a lifetime, the Buffalo Commandos were called to the podium to announce their pick. The owner, Abraham Erskine lead the way with his wife Lottie, followed by the general manager Nick Fury, Coach Maria Hill, and Assistant Coach Phil Coulson and legendary Strength and Conditioning Coach Melinda May. The others lined up to the side of the podium. Bucky’s eyes flicked between the freshly folded jersey in Coulson’s hands and where Fury was settling himself at the podium, waiting for the noise to die down. 

“We choose James Barnes. Get your ass on up here, kid,” Fury said. “We aint got all day.” Fury walked from the podium and took his place in the lineup. Peirce sidled up next to him, probably to reprimand him for his language in a polite whisper. But all Bucky could think was that he had been chosen. He’d done it. He’d made it. He was in the NHL. From that moment forward he was a professional hockey player. There was applause all around him.

Numbly, he stood and embraced his father in the most bone crushing hug he could manage. George thumped his son on the back a few times, proudly, before releasing him. Bucky turned then to Eliza and they embraced. 

“You really did it, kid,” Eliza whispered in his ear above the din. Bucky pulled back and smiled at her, still feeling dazed. His agent, Antonio, leaned past Eliza and shook Bucky’s hand with a winning smile and a few words of encouragement. 

“You’ll remember this moment when you’re a Hall of Fame-er!” Antonio shouted.

“Yeah, right,” Bucky managed as he scooted past his father into the aisle. He shrugged off his suit jacket as he walked, folding the tailored Armani over his arm the way Eliza had painstakingly taught him. An assistant was waiting by the bottom of the stage steps to take it from him. The whole thing still felt unreal. 

Fury was the first one to greet him with a simple nod and a firm handshake. Erskine and his wife had a few kind words but Bucky just smiled and nodded, not even able to take anything more in at that point, he was so overwhelmed. 

Coulson handed him the jersey and he pulled it on. Someone else put the hat in his hand. Bucky tucked the hat on over his neatly combed hair, wondering if the product would hold or if he’d have to sneak into the bathroom to fix it. What a stupid thing to think about now, Bucky marveled, throwing his arms around whoever was nearest. He smiled winningly for the picture and then everyone was hustled off the stage.

Bucky was officially a Commando now.


	2. Chapter 2

“Guys!” Steve called, frustrated with the team already. “We do not refer to the rookies as ‘fresh meat’ and we definitely do not try to trick them into exposing themselves at Demitri’s aunt's wedding!” introducing the veterans to the rookies was always a momentous time for any team. Kind of like bringing a sweet impressionable puppy home to a pack of street dogs.

“You’re no fun, Steve,” Dum-Dum said, kicking at his captain’s sneaker. The press may have loved calling Steve “Captain All-American” but around the NHL he had another moniker. Being “Captain Tight-Ass” wasn’t exactly something Steve was looking to put on his resume when he retired from the league, though. 

“He has a point, though,” Jim "Morey" Morita said amiably. “We want to initiate the kids not get them arrested for public indecency. Let’s just pull classic. Invite them out for dinner, then make them pay the bill at the last minute.”

“Loosen the tops on all their water bottles? Steal all their clothes and replace them with cheap Halloween costumes? Sneak into their hotel rooms and open everything in their mini fridges, then order obscene amounts of porn and room service in their names?” Falseworth suggested helpfully, looking up from his book on opium smuggling and grinning behind his signature mustache. His grin was missing three teeth. Steve might not have loved his nickname but it was still probably better than any of Monty's. The defensemen was known variously around the locker room as False Teeth, Union Jack, Worther, and Posh Spice.

“I say we scrap the initiation altogether,” Jonesy commented in passing. “The last thing we need is another season-long prank war. The Commandos are better than this pro-sports hazing bullshit. We need to set an example for the League or we’ll just end up like those shits on the Hydras’ roster.” Everyone's faces soured at the mention of the Hydras faster than that time Dum-Dum packed Worther's locker full of sardines. The stink lingered for days after that incident and they'd still, to a man, rather deal with the sardines than the Hydras.

"Finally, someone's talking sense," Steve said, relieved that he had one ally amongst his friends. Dum-Dum grumbled but no one was really in the mood to fight about it, though. As professional athletes, they were nothing if not focused. They all had their minds on the challenges that lay in their immediate future.

It was strength test day. Even among hypercompetitive professional athletes, there was little to love about strength testing. This was the time when their conditioning and physical fitness would be measured, tested, and charted. In the next couple weeks they would each get new personalized diets, stretches, workouts, etc. 

It may have been the Strength and Conditioning Coach, May’s, first season with the Commandos but her reputation preceded her. Every team she had ever worked for had won a Stanley Cup during her tenure. She was a legend. And, according to every player Steve knew who’d ever been under her scrutiny, she was also a sadist. 

The Commandos had never even made it to a playoff game. Not a single postseason in the past 50 years. Needless to say, the team didn’t quite feel confident on the precipice of May’s conditioning hell trials.  
The door opened but Steve didn’t bother to look over- all of the veteran players knew well enough to be fifteen minutes early any time Fury called on them to assemble, but the rookies apparently weren’t yet aware that in Fury’s mind ten minutes early was five minutes late. Fury, Hill, May, and Coulson were all off in one corner of the gym whispering amongst each other, no doubt planning nefarious ways to push their team members past the breaking point. 

“Hey,” a deep voice called. Steve looked over. It was Barnes. He looked, if possible, even more gorgeous in Underarmor than he did in Armani. “Are we meant to, like, check in with someone or something?” Barnes asked with a self-conscious smile. It was fucking adorable. Rookies always came into the league expecting there to be a sign in sheet or something. So used to sleep away camps and school trips where someone else was accoutable for them at all times.

“No, don’t worry about it kid,” Steve said, trying to decide on the fly if he should warn the rookie about the punishment he no doubt had coming. “Those guys see everything. They’ll start when everyone gets here.” 

“Thanks,” Barnes said. “You’re the captain, right? Steve Rogers? I saw your draft year. I’ve been waiting to meet you ever since,” Bucky said with one of his patented charming smiles. “It’s gonna be a real honor to skate with the guy who led the US World Juniors to their first gold in a decade.” Dum-Dum scoffed at the appraisal in the kid’s voice and Steve sent his old friend a glare.

“Yeah,” Steve said, uncomfortable with the praise even as he wrote it off as standard rookie ass kissing. “And you’re James Barnes, our new star rookie and right wing sniper. Lead the US World Juniors to their second gold in a decade.” Steve smiled crookedly as Bucky rolled his eyes.

“I wasn’t wearing the C, pal,” Bucky said. “And my name is Bucky. Not to the press or anything, just to my friends and family.”

“Old hockey nickname?” Steve asked sympathetically. Steve knew hockey nicknames had an undeniable habit of sticking even when they weren’t wanted. Barnes just shrugged, apparently he was done sharing personal details for the day. “Well, hockey is nothing if not a team sport, Bucky. You deserve the credit just as much as every other player who wore red white and blue that day.”

“You know who says that? Loosers and goalies, that’s who,” Barnes joked.

“Don’t forget defensemen,” Steve added, grinning despite the fact that Jonesy was pretending to gag behind him and Jaques "Frenchy" Dernier was humming the tune to “Can You Feel the Love Tonight”. Steve had long since made his peace with the fact that his teammates thought they were funny.

He cast his eyes around, noticing that he and Bucky were in their own little bubble as the other members of the team chatted around them, or sat to the side with their earbuds in, getting themselves into the zone for the hell that was about to reign down upon them. Frenchy and Jonesy were very pointedly ignoring them and chuckling to each other in French whenever it seemed that there was a chance their antics might be noticed.

“What kind of hazing should I expect?” Barnes asked frankly, meeting Steve’s eye and holding it brazenly. Steve wasn't the only one who had noticed the incredibly subtle mocking from his teammates, then. “Don’t give me that ‘we keep the sport clean’ bullshit, every team has their rituals. I’m not asking you to tell me what it’s gonna be, just how bad.” Steve’s eyebrows shot up at Barnes's candor. This wasn't the media darling he was expecting, or the put together suave young man he'd gotten at the beginning of their conversation. At last, he felt like he was getting a glimpse of the real Bucky Barnes.

“When I was a rookie they got us all wasted and then made us eat anchovy and pineapple pizza. It actually wasn’t that bad. The pizza I mean,” Steve said. “Although it was definitely not dietician approved. Anchovies have a surprising amount of salt, you know,” Steve was rambling. “Listen, just, don’t worry about it, kid. I wouldn’t let them do anything that would scar you for life. Or hurt your ability to perform on the ice, obviously.” Barnes nodded, his expression serious. There was a least one good story there, Steve knew, a real reason why Bucky was so concerned about the hazing.

Just when Steve resolved to ask about it, however, Coach Hill yelled for them all to line up in alphabetical order so that the torture could begin.

…

Bucky literally didn’t think he could get up off the padded gym floor if someone came along and paid him to. He thought he knew what a hard workout was but what May hadn’t put them through anything quite so constructive. Her goal seemed to be simple: push each man to their limits and then see how far past those limits she could push them without breaking anything that wouldn’t heal in under a week.

Bucky felt like he had broken early and hard but the others had been quick to assure him. No man left May's conditioning tests feeling good about themselves.

“Hey,” Steve panted. Bucky turned his head to look at the man and immediately swallowed thickly. Steve had taken his shirt off at some point during the testing. Bucky had been too preoccupied to notice then but it was very apparent to him now. Steve was built like a Greek God. Most hockey players were leaner through the chest and arms, not needing the extra bulk to slow them down, but Steve was different. He was filled out the best possible way. A brick shithouse with wide shoulders, a tiny waist, and the perfect hockey ass that looked so firm Bucky thought he could bounce a bowling ball off of it. Bucky’s mouth probably would have watered if he hadn’t sweated out every drop of moisture in his body. 

The way the sweat glistened on Steve’s pecs positively made Bucky want to whine. What did a man have to do to be worthy of having that work of art panting in his bed? He couldn’t understand how every man on the team wasn’t at least a little bi-curious when they had such a majestic view to inspire them.

“Sorry, what?” Bucky asked, acutely aware that he had zoned out with his gaze locked on his new captain’s chest. He’d really need to get a hold of that.

“I said, where are you staying? Do you have a place lined up yet? A billet family?” Steve looked a little concerned like he thought Bucky might faint. If his life followed the plot of one of his mom's bodice-ripping novels Bucky thought he might try it, just to get Steve's glistening arms around him and a close up of that chest. Unfortunately, there were no bodices to be found in the locker room and the only ripping was the new asshole Furry had torn every man who hadn't been fifteen minutes early.

“Um, yeah,” Bucky confessed, pushing himself up so he was sitting, his elbows resting on his bent knees. “I actually met Morita at a hockey camp a couple of years ago and he called my agent and offered to billet for me,” Bucky shrugged going for nonchalant. "He said he thought it would be good for me to have a family environment for a while. I've never really lived on my own before."

“Morita's a great guy, you're going to really appreciate having someone so level headed around when the pressure starts mounting during the season,” Steve said. “His wife Anne is a great cook, and Shelby and Keith are great kids. Real fun to hang out with.”

“Yeah,” Bucky said sardonically. "I get the feeling that one of the conditions of Morita's offer was the free babysitting. But he's in for a rude awakening because I've never been good with kids. My sisters and I never had much in common. And then after my parents split I had to stay with my dad so I could keep doing hockey and I don't even know why I'm telling you this," Bucky said abruptly, realizing that he'd been running his mouth without his brain's approval.

“Don't sweat it, Buck. I like hearing about this stuff,” Steve said with a smile that was too fucking dorky and gorgeous for Bucky to do anything but stare at his captain dumbly from the ground, his mouth hanging open a little. He could feel every inch of where his shirt was clinging to his skin, soaked with sweat. “Can I see your phone?” Steve asked politely, totally unaware of Bucky’s internal crisis. Bucky plastered on a press release smile and unlocked his phone quickly before handing it over. He had to really watch it from now on. Rogers had a way of just getting under his skin so easily Bucky didn't even notice until he was already running his mouth and letting his eyes wander.

“This is my number,” Steve was saying as he entered it in Bucky’s phone. “Call or text anytime. I really want you to feel like you're included here. OH, and, um, just so you know there's this a team tradition where the captain throws a party before the season starts. I know Morita will be coming by so you can hitch a ride with him.It'll be fun, I hope.” It was obviously a practiced speech, well the first part was at least. Bucky just nodded dumbly, hoping like hell he was doing a decent job of concealing what was whirling around his head.

“Sure,” Bucky said breezily. “Sounds good.” 

“Cool,” Steve said, sounding like an excited fifth grader who’d made a new friend at sleep-away camp. “I’ll see you later then, Buck.” Bucky gave the captain a mocking little salute and watched the frankly fantastic view as Steve walked away.

Ten seconds ago he wouldn’t have moved to save his life. Now Bucky felt as though he would voluntarily run ten miles if only Steve was waiting for him at the end of it, naked. Bucky had never wanted to fuck someone so badly in his life (not even last year when he’d accidentally walked in on Johnny Storm jerking off in the locker room shower). Rugby players, _hot damn_.

Every second with Steve Rogers was going to be absolute torture.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed!
> 
> As always you can find me at [my tumblr](http://www.heartofthemirror.tumblr.com).
> 
> Comments and kudos are love.


	3. Chapter 3

When Bucky’s agent had told him Jim Morita had reached out to him of course he’d been excited. But also surprisingly apprehensive. Bucky was walking straight out of high school and into the best professional hockey league on Earth. Even the other draft picks were mostly coming from college teams or foreign countries where they’d played for years. 

Now suddenly Jim Morita- whose autograph Bucky had displayed on his wall- was asking for his phone number. It had been fucking surreal, to say the least.

There was a little squirming part of Bucky, a nasty voice inside the corners of his mind that a constant stream of hockey helped him ignore, that whispered that Bucky could never be worthy of all the good things that were coming his way.

Bucky tried to ignore it. For the most part, he was successful because he made sure he was too busy day and night training to think about what was actually happening or what his life would be like when the preseason started.

Honestly, though, Bucky was relieved that someone had made the offer to be his billet family. Billet families were an old and sacred tradition in hockey. Older, more experienced players often took rookies into their homes and showed them the ropes of the lifestyle. Let them have a sense of family in a strange city where the only other people who knew them wanted something from them. 

Bucky had been staying with billet families off and on since he was ten years old for hockey camps, tournaments, and in the brief few years before high school when he’d bounced around chasing the best hockey programs on the east coast. 

As star-struck as he was by Morita, Bucky was still thankful that it wasn’t Rogers who had offered to be his billet host. There was no way he could explain popping wood every time Rogers bent over to pick something up without outing himself. It would be hard enough keeping a lid on things just working with the guy.

He was interested in the team captain for more than just his looks, though.

Three years ago Steve had been the Commandos’ pick when they came in second in the lottery. Bucky had privately thought, at the time, that Steve should have been number one. But everyone was all hyped up about some kid named Hodge who got drunk when his team didn’t make the playoffs and crashed his car into a tree outside of Boston. The kid had had like ten surgeries and was forced to retire from professional sports. 

It had been a mess for League PR. The Boston Avengers already had a spotty reputation thanks to the sheer number of fights they got into. Now the press was calling them irresponsible as if the underage drinking and driving had been vetted and approved by management. The reclusive owner of the Avengers had actually flown in from Russia to personally oversee the restructuring that followed. 

Then to make matters worse, a few weeks later contract negotiations rolled around. Commissioner Pierce had rolled out new rules drastically increasing the penalties for “. . . off-ice behavior not fitting a member of the League, not in accordance with the moral foundation and/or public behavior expected of a member of the League.” 

This had caused the NHL Player’s Association to strike, arguing that the open-ended language could be applied to literally anything. They didn’t want suspensions and fines being handed down arbitrarily on Pierce’s notoriously vindictive whims. 

Steve, still a rookie, had immediately taken a loud and leading role in the negotiations and was summarily named captain of his team before he’d even taken the ice in his first NHL game. Partly, this was due to the fact that the previous captain was being publicly investigated for domestic abuse and everyone was eager to put a fresh, clean face on the franchise in light of that ugly, indefinite suspension.

Despite The Commandos being referred to as “The most misfit team in sports,” by CNN, Steve was instrumental in talking Pierce down and convincing the NHLPA to accept a version of the contract with modified language. He was a respected figure in the league not only for his skill with the puck but also for his tenacity, confidence, and ability to bring very different people together as one unit. 

The whole episode, and everything that followed, made Steve Rogers nothing short of a hero in Bucky’s eyes. The first hero Bucky had ever had who hadn’t a) left his mom for a younger woman or b) earned Bucky’s respect solely because of their game-time conduct. 

Now, all Bucky had to do to earn Steve’s respect in return was play it cool and find the back of the net a few times. Shouldn’t be that hard.

…

Steve banged his forehead gently against the steering wheel of his SUV. 

“Fuck,” he said under his breath. He hated the pre-pre-season party. It was without a doubt his second least favorite part of being captain. 

He put off thinking about it so ardently that he hadn’t even realized it was two days away until he’d invited Barnes. He didn’t have anything ready. His fridge was empty except for an old box of baking soda and a bone dry water filter. 

He’d only flown in last night. He’d slept on the couch because he’d stripped the bed bare before he went back home to Brooklyn for the summer and he hadn’t felt like making it.

There was just so much to do. He didn’t even know how he was going to find the energy to even get himself home nonetheless go on a massive shopping trip and hose off the coolers in the garage and makeup all the guest rooms with fresh sheets.

Life was hard.

Steve sighed and started up his monster SUV (which his mother had convinced him he needed for the insane Buffalo winters) and drove out of the First Niagara Center. 

Somehow, Steve knew, he’d have to convince himself to stop by Wegman's on his way home and pick up some nutritionist-approved food and a few cases of beer. Despite what his teammates thought, Steve did know the value of cutting loose a little every once in awhile. He wouldn’t shirk his captainly duties.

He was in the middle of trying to find low-sodium corn chips when his phone started ringing.

“Dum-Dum, what’s up?” Steve asked, bewildered as to why his teammate and mentor was even still awake after the trials and tribulations they had all suffered.

“Mariane wanted to let you know we’re bringing all the food for the party,” Dum-Dum said amiably. “We both know you’re standing in the middle of some grocery store right now desperately trying to get your shit together.”

“You’re a mind reader,” Steve said sarcastically, putting the corn chips back. “Got any other circus tricks I should know about?” 

“None I can discuss in polite company,” Dum-Dum said primly. Steve thought he could hear his wife, Marianne, giggling in the background. 

“Good thing you’ve never been in polite company in your life, then, isn’t it,” Steve quipped back, honestly so relieved to have a friend who knew him so well. Dum-Dum had really been the one to take him under his wing when Steve had first come to the NHL with little more than a stubborn streak, a nose that was always getting broken where it didn’t belong, and a 'fight me' attitude. 

He doubted anyone outside the League would ever believe that it was Timothy “The Gravedigger” Duggan who taught him how to control his temper. But most of the guys who handled pucks professionally knew that the biggest fighters on the ice were often the biggest softies when they unlaced their skates. 

That was Dum-Dum all over. Despite his mischievous streak, he was one of the kindest and most openhearted guys on the team. Last year at the end of the season they did a kind of Secret Santa style awards ceremony. Dugan was given the “Team Dad” award which came with a gift basket full of barbecue supplies, khaki slacks, sandals and socks, and a gift certificate to a golf course.f Dum-Dum, obviously, had been moved to tears. He then somehow found out who’d drawn his name and ordered 27 sheet pizzas to his house the next weekend.

Steve owned Dum-Dum a lot. Not just for offering him a home and a family when he first came to Buffalo, but also for making sure that the older veterans on the team actually listened to him. There were a lot of people, many of them his teammates on the Commandos, who believed that Steve's promotion to Captain was just a PR stunt. He hadn't earned his stripes on the ice in their eyes and they made it clear that they weren't going to give him the time of day until he did. 

Steve had no idea what he would have done if Dum-Dum hadn't come to the rescue.

...

The first thing Bucky thought when he stepped inside Steve's house was that it was surprisingly... normal. It was definitely a house and not a mansion, for one thing. Bucky knew how many millions of dollars Steve's contract was worth. Even Morita, who was a very down to Earth guy, lived in a mansion near the beach. Steve's house was nestled in a cookie cutter suburb full of green lawns and driveways bearing minivans and SUVs. 

"Hey guys, glad you could make it," Steve said, coming up to them and clapping Morita on the arm.

"This is a nice place you've got here," Bucky said, looking around at the taupe walls and pristine, almost untouched furniture. "So much.... beige. It's nice," Bucky said. 

Steve looked around as if noticing the house for the first time. He rubbed the back of his neck and looked up through his eyelashes sheepishly. 

"Yeah, I haven't really done much since I bought the place. I put most of my effort into my apartment in Brooklyn," Steve admitted shyly. "This is really just a place to sleep for now."

"You spend more than half your year in this house," Bucky said incredulously. Steve just shrugged, his face turning even redder. Bucky noted how cute it was even as he made plans to get his step-mother in touch with Eliza on the double. Steve clearly needed some color and style in his life.

"Dum-Dum's got the grill going in the backyard. Most of the core is out there making sure he doesn't burn anything again," Steve said, by way of distracting his guests from the less than flattering conversation.

"Don't worry," Anne said seriously. "I brought extra ketchup and barbecue sauce. We'll just drown out the char like we did last year."

"I wish I were half as prepared as you," Steve joked, dodging out of the way as Keith and Shelby escaped their mother's grip on their shoulders and raced past Steve toward the sound of kids laughing and playing in the back yard. With a sigh Anne and Morita followed after their kids, yelling directives at them such as "Play nice," and "Don't feed Jonesy's dog cole slaw!"

"Aren't you gonna come outside?" Bucky asked. Steve shrugged. 

"Some of the rookies are having a Mario Cart tournament in the living room. I kind of wanted to keep an eye on them." It was an impulse that Bucky could understand. Adding new guys to a team always changed the chemistry and it was the captain's job to make sure everyone got along, did their jobs, and behaved themselves. Also, the last thing anyone needed was for some underage rookie to get drunk and repeat Hodge's mistakes. 

"I'll come with you," Bucky offered. This was purely an altruistic effort on his behalf that had nothing to do with the brilliant way Steve smiled at him when he made the offer. He was just making sure the rest of the new guys understood the score and didn't get in trouble. He was definitely not waiting around by Steve's side in the hopes that the captain would smile at him again, or touch his shoulder the way he'd touched Morita's- casual, as if they'd been friends for years. Fuck it all, Bucky admitted to himself finally as he squeezed into the love seat next to Steve and did his best to ignore the tempting warmth radiating from beside him.

Bucky was absolutely starving for Steve's approval.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos are very motivational and much appreciated!


	4. Chapter 4

It was almost two in the morning and Bucky was so much more sober than he wanted to be. He’d promised Eliza that he wouldn’t ruin everything he’d worked so hard for his entire life just so he could get wasted at a party and do something regrettable.

And there was no way he was getting drunk in front of Steve Rogers. No way in hell, not after he’d seen how stressed the captain got as he tried to corral the reckless rookies. Everyone knew how much Steve hated his boring grandpa public image, and it was an open secret that under 21 meant little in the NHL (an organization that was half full of Canadians who's laws permitted them to drink at 19, and also largely populated by Russians. Who drank like Russians). There were plenty of bartenders who valued being seen with pro-athletes in their establishment more than they valued seeing valid IDs.

Between Bucky and Steve, it was still a full-time job to keep all the rookies in the living room and away from the cooler of drinks in the backyard and the counter teeming with open bottles and the blender full of mixed drinks in the kitchen.

“But vodka doesn’t have nearly as many empty calories as beer!” one of the rookies told Bucky in a very ardent manner. His name was Carl Smith but already everyone was calling the kid Smitty. Carl Smith was a cruel name to give a child and it was best forgotten. 

“This isn’t about the diet. The nutrition plan is important, but not getting Steve arrested for serving alcohol to a bunch of underage kids is way more vital,” Bucky tried to explain, gently prying the shot out of Smitty’s hand. Half of it ended up sloshing over onto Steve’s cream colored carpet. Bucky hoped it would be fine. Clear alcohol couldn’t stain, could it?

He was too young to worry about this shit. If he were anyone else his age Bucky would be sneaking shots himself, not guarding the liquor cabinet from his coworkers.

Most of the other rookies were laser focused on the final stages of the Mario Kart Tournament Redux, or at least they were pretending to be because they understood that they were being babysat by the most awkward man in the tristate area and they didn’t want to make things worse.

“This is bullshit,” Smitty grumbled. “I’m on the team same as anyone else. I know for a fact that the Hydras let Kharkov drink. He texted me pics from their summer rager like a week ago.” Jonesy poked his head into the living room, practically hissing at the mention of the Commandos’ most hated rivals. 

“Did someone say the fucking Hyrdas’ name in this house without cursing their very souls first?!” he yelled. At first, Bucky just thought he was being dramatic. But no, Bucky realized a second later as the other veteran players ran into the living room chanting variations of, “Cleanse the rookie! Cleanse him! He has been made unclean!” Jonesy was just chumming the waters. 

Bucky looked over at Steve, who was shaking his head like he disapproved but smiling all the same. The other veteran players hoisted Smitty up in the air and carried him out of the living room still chanting, jostling him up and down more than was strictly necessary. 

“Should I be worried?” Bucky asked Steve as the other rookies paused the game and raced out to the backyard to see what was happening. 

“No,” Steve assured him. The captain had only had two or three drinks but he was already looser, more relaxed. He put a hand on Bucky’s back between his shoulder blades and guided him outside just in time for Bucky to hear the enormous splash and see the water arcing up and spraying out over the edges of Steve’s pool.

“Well, I think we’ve done our duty here gentlemen,” Dum Dum said in a very satisfied way. “I for one am going to march home with my head high and sleep with the most gorgeous woman in the world.” His wife Marianne snorted from where she was lounging on a chair on Steve’s patio.

“I didn’t know Kate Beckinsale was coming over tonight honey!” she called, making the other wives and girlfriends she was chatting with laugh raucously around her.

The crowd was much sparser than it had been when Bucky arrived with Morita. A lot of the older players had gone home with their kids or to relieve their babysitters. Some of them had just called it an early night because they were too invested in the process of working themselves into good habits for the season to blow them off even for a night.

“You still want a lift home, Barnes?” Dum Dum called, Marianne was leaning on him as they ambled towards the back door. For all his bluster, Bucky knew that Dum Dum was stone cold sober. Dum Dum had declared himself Designated Driver early in the night. Most of the rookies were now preparing to pile in the Dugan Family mini-van as the defenseman made it clear that he was finally calling it a night.

“You don’t have to go,” Steve said. The hand that had been between his shoulder blades was suddenly thrown around his neck. “I could always use help cleaning up in the morning.” Steve smiled like he was trying to charm Bucky into saying yes but didn’t actually have much hope of succeeding. 

“Sory Dugan,” Bucky called back. “Looks like I’ve been conscripted.”

“Don’t get too _forward_ with him,” Dum Dum teased Steve in a much quieter voice as he passed the two. Steve shoved at Dugan and rolled his eyes. Bucky was so shocked by the implication, even jokingly, that Steve might get handsy with him that it took him a minute to notice the pun. Bucky, whose position on the ice was the left wing forward. Steve, the center forward. Har har. 

“Why do I get the feeling you just saved me from some kind of hazing ritual?” Bucky asked Steve as they watched the last of the guests funnel out. The backyard was lit primarily by multicolored string lights and tiki torches. The flickering amber flames brought out the gold in Steve’s hair and the sharp cut of his jaw. The effect was devastating.

“Picking up drunks and sticky red solo cups is a hazing ritual,” Steve said, a little offended that this fate was, apparently, not considered enough of a trial.

“He’s going to dump them somewhere strange and unexpected, isn’t he?” Bucky asked.

“Dum Dum would never let anyone get hurt for a prank!” Steve protested, but his eyes were shifting around and Bucky knew that while Steve was telling the truth he wasn’t exactly telling the relevant truth at the moment. 

“Thanks Steve,” Bucky said, feeling an uncontrollable swelling of affection that was probably shining through his eyes plain as day, even in the shadowy backyard. “It’s good to know you’ve always got my back.”

“Any time Buck,” Steve said, staring straight into Bucky’s eyes. “Any time.” Bucky felt like if Steve asked him to, in that moment he could fly. He was entirely disgusted with himself when he realized he’d really just thought that. Sober.

After they’d both made sure that the house was empty of everyone who had planned to leave and that those remaining at least had a pillow on whatever section of couch, floor, or guest room they’d appropriated for the night, Steve showed Bucky to one of the rooms he’d labeled “off limits” at the start of the party. It was the master.

“I promise I don’t hog the sheets,” Steve joked awkwardly. The bed was huge. Clearly king size, large enough for both of them with room to spare, despite the fact that neither of them were exactly small boys. The room was covered in shadows, lit only by one dim bedside lamp that must have been left on accidentally before the party started. Neither of them made a move for the light switch on the wall.

“Are you sure this is cool?” Bucky asked, feeling suddenly nervous. “Because I can just get a cab or find somewhere else to crash,” Bucky said, feeling guilty that Steve had had such an obviously taxing evening and was clearly going to have a shit night of sleep sharing his bed with a rookie to cap it off.

“No, stay,” Steve said. It sounded like an order but also like a plea. “I, uh, I’m not actually a huge fan of sleeping alone. So it would help. If you were here, I mean.” Bucky looked back at the massive bed with the crisp sheets. Everything in the room, what little there was in it, looked like it had just been taken out of the package. 

The bed, the sheets, the dresser, the bedside table, even the alarm clock, all of it looked like an automaton had picked it out of a catalog. Bucky could definitely see how it could be lonely, sleeping in this empty soulless room. 

“Do you have a pair of sweats I could borrow?” Bucky asked, looking back at Steve. The guy’s entire face lit up like a golden retriever who’d been told he was about to be taken for a walk.

It eased something in Bucky’s chest, knowing someone like Steve could be lonely too. It shouldn’t have, it wasn’t like Bucky was happy to see Steve so obviously struggling, but it humanized the captain. It made Bucky feel like maybe there was something he could offer the man he admired- maybe his friendship could have some weight, some worth to a man who ostensibly had it all.

Steve dug through his drawers and pulled out a perfectly folded pair of sweats and a worn Commandos t-shirt. 

Steve turned to grab a set for himself and then paused. 

“Do you want me to leave so you can change?” he asked Bucky seriously. 

Bucky just gaped at him for a moment. “Steve we’re gonna share a locker room together. We’re gonna see each other naked like every day. For months.” Steve just shrugged, unabashed by his own unnecessary chivalry.

“That’s a totally different context,” Steve said. Rolling his eyes, Bucky set the pile of clothes Steve had handed him on the bed and began stripping down. He wasn’t worried so much about getting an inappropriate boner at the moment. His mind was too preoccupied with Steve’s obvious depression and there was fuck all that was sexy about that. 

Bucky had accepted that it was his mission, however difficult or uninvited, to help Steve finally feel comfortable in Buffalo. He wasn’t gonna let Steve suffer alone when the man obviously went out of his way to take care of everyone else.

When Bucky dropped his dirty clothes in a heap by the foot of the bed and turned around all his ideas about inappropriate boners not being a problem flew right the fuck out the window. Steve was bent over, pulling up a pair of fresh boxer briefs. 

_Lord have mercy_ Bucky thought. The shadows in the room caressed the curves of Steve’s perfect body. He managed to wrench his eyes away and focus only on hockey stats as Steve stepped into a pair of worn cotton PJ pants covered in little penguins wearing hats and scarves. 

He didn’t bother with a shirt.

“What side do you want?” Bucky asked.

“Closer to the door,” Steve told him. Bucky managed to look away from the man’s godly physique long enough to not and crawl over the sheets to the side of the bed that faced the far wall.

Steve turned off the lights and crawled under the sheet. His heat radiated over to Bucky.

“Hey,” Bucky whispered in the darkness. “In the morning, after we’re gone cleaning up, you wanna go to the store? I wanna pick up a couple things for my room at the Morita’s."

“Sure,” Steve whispered back, turning over on his side to face Bucky even though they couldn’t see each other through the shadows. Bucky’s fingers clenched in the sheets between them.

“What did Dugan mean before, with that joke,” Bucky asked. He hadn’t been able to stop thinking about it. Gay jokes weren’t that unusual for any sports team, but the way the most boisterous Commando had leaned in so only Steve and Bucky could hear him…

“I’m bisexual,” Steve said, his voice clear but quiet in the dark room. “I’m not out or anything but my mom knows, and a few of the guys on the team.”

“None of them care?” Bucky asked, selfishly concerned with what they might think of him. Of them.

“No,” Steve said without hesitation. “Why, do you care?” 

“I care a lot. It’s been years since I’ve had another bisexual on my team, that I knew of at least.”

“You too?” Steve asked curiously, gentle still.

“Yeah,” Bucky said, feeling a little choked up even though he told himself there was nothing to get emotional about. He was out to his mom, and Eliza. He’d come out to select friends before, people he trusted. Somehow with Steve it felt raw, different. He was the only one in the same position as Bucky, the only one who had as much to lose. And alone together in the dark it was easy to get emotional. “Me too.”

Steve’s hand found Bucky’s forearm in the dark. There was something potent in the air, a heady electrical charge that made Bucky hyper aware of his skin.

“I’m not coming on to you,” Steve mumbled, stroking his thumb back and forth, “I just want you to know I’m here. I’ll always have your back Buck.”

“You can come on to me if you want,” Bucky said. It was supposed to be a joke. It didn’t sound like a joke. Didn’t feel like one. A heavy moment followed.

“We can’t date,” Steve said. “There are rules-”

“I’m not saying we should date,” Bucky interrupted. “But you don’t like sleeping alone. Neither do I. And it’s not like we’ll have time to go out to bars and pick up women once the season starts.” Bucky doubted very much if Steve was the kind of guy who would have a secret lover on the side. Even the friends with benefits arrangement Bucky was suggesting seemed to be pushing the boundaries.

“Listen, if I’m making you uncomfortable just tell me to cork it and I will. I know you’ve got good reasons to say no. We both do. But I’m letting you know it’s on the table if you want it. I’m laying out all my cards for you Steve.” Bucky swallowed and licked his lower lip, running his teeth over it while Steve’s eyes tracked the movement in the dark.

Bucky had never felt so brave. He’d never done anything so stupid. But of course, every hockey player had had the words of The Great One, Wayne Gretzky, drilled into them since their first peewee camp: “You miss 100% of the shots you don’t take.”

The moment of silence lingered, putting Bucky on edge the longer it went on.

“Get some sleep Buck,” Steve finally said, like he was shutting down the conversation. But his hand remained where it was, warm and just gently caressing Bucky’s arm, as if he made the motion of his fingertips gentle enough Bucky wouldn’t notice. 

“Don’t forget we’re going shopping tomorrow,” Bucky mumbled. He listened to Steve hum quietly in reply. If Steve needed to sleep on things then so be it. Bucky didn’t want to be the kind of guy who kept pushing past the point where people had drawn the line. But sooner or later he fully intended to get an answer out of Steve. Even if it wasn’t the one he was hoping for, Bucky had to know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys should really take a moment to check out this crazy article on Wayne Gretzky, largely believed to be the best hockey player, ever. Dude was CRAZY good, not just for a hockey player but for any athlete in pro sports.
> 
> [ Check out the quick article on Gretzkey's crazy legacy here.](http://mentalfloss.com/article/54717/15-facts-honor-wayne-gretzkys-53rd-birthdayhis)
> 
> I may have included Gretzky's most famous quote in this fic but he has some seriously excellent ones that are less well known. [You can check those out here. ](http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/authors/w/wayne_gretzky.html)
> 
> As always, reviews, comments, and kudos the life-giving ambroasia.


	5. Chapter 5

It was a slow way to wake up. All warm molasses and honey, sunlight and body heat. Bucky hummed, nuzzling into the soft skin of Steve’s neck. The little hairs at the base of his skull tickled Bucky’s nose. Bucky mouthed at the curve of Steve’s neck a little, just brushing his dry lips over the softness of the skin there idly.

Despite what he’d told Steve last night, Bucky had never actually woken up with someone before. Sure, he’d been to sleepovers as a kid, and he’s shared hotel rooms on away trips but everyone had always had their own bed or sleeping bag.

As far as sex went, Bucky had definitely had his fair share. He wasn’t bashful, he knew he could have his pick and he did, in the off-season. But his partners weren’t exactly expecting him to stick around and cuddle. And wasn’t _that_ a damn shame, because Bucky could cuddle like a motherfucker.

Steve hummed back at him, a different pitch like they were both speaking the same early morning language. One of Steve’s big hands ran up Bucky’s arm leisurely, his fingers curling under the sleeve of Bucky’s borrowed t-shirt. 

Bucky sighed against Steve’s neck, wishing there were some way he could lean into that hand cradling his shoulder. Steve shivered at the feeling of air over the dampness on his neck.

“We gotta get up,” Steve mumbled into the messy hair at the top of Bucky’s head.

“Nooooo,” Bucky groaned. He gripped Steve’s shirt tighter, except, no, he suddenly remembered that Steve wasn’t wearing a shirt. He was just fondling the man’s pec. Steve groaned again and moved the hand that wasn’t slung around Bucky’s back to gently take Bucky’s fingers and interlace them with his own.

“Come on sleepyhead,” Steve said, giving Bucky’s lax fingers a squeeze. “Don’t you want to clean up the house and wake all the guys and make sure they get home okay?”

“Oh yeah,” Bucky grumbled, not lifting his head from the heaven of Steve’s neck. “That sounds like a real hoot.” He could smell Steve in that comfortable way, just the scent of his skin and the salt of his sweat. 

Bucky hooked his leg more firmly around Steve’s. God, this was an indulgence he definitely couldn’t allow himself on game days. But maybe nights, after games, when there was no rush to wake up the next morning. Yeah, that would be better than sinking into a hot bath when every one of his muscles were aching after a hard workout.

“Yeah,” Steve conceded, trailing his fingers lightly over Bucky’s spine in a way that made him shiver. “But then I’ll take you shopping. Help you buy something real pretty with all that fancy new money sitting in your bank account.” 

“Oh my God, Rogers,” Bucky said, shoving away from Steve because if he didn’t use this excuse to do so he might never convince himself he should. “You can’t, like, _vicariously_ be my sugar daddy. Especially not if you’re going to use my own money to do it!” 

Steve laughed, even though he went red like a tomato. “Come on, time to get up rookie,” he said, falling back into the awkward-but-terribly-earnest-captain routine. Bucky backed off, smiling lopsidedly and bracing himself for the shoulder punch of we-are-definitely-just-bros. 

It didn’t come. Steve just rubbed the back of his own neck and avoided eye contact. “Do you want me to leave so you can-”

“Steve. I will be washing my balls in the shower next to you and like twenty-eight other guys next week. If you offer to leave your own bedroom so I can change again I might actually be a little bit offended. I’m not a blushing maiden.” But Steve was, apparently, and as Bucky’s eyes trailed down past his amazing pecs, toned abs, adorable little belly button, and golden happy trail, he noticed something very interesting. Steve was a full body blusher

Just as Bucky was about to investigate that thought, a loud belch, followed by a crash, followed by half-drunk laughter, sounded from the living room.

“Oh god, not another lamp,” Steve groaned, heading for the door immediately. Well, Bucky thought, that was one way to end a moment. And they had definitely been having a moment.

…

Steve wasn’t much one for home goods. Admittedly, it was Sarah Rogers, with a healthy dose of help from Ikea, who had made their condo in Brooklyn a home, rather than just a place to hang his Sunday slacks and extra pads. 

Still, even he knew that they were in a store that he would have been kicked out of before his first NHL check had cleared. This was not, as Bucky had claimed, “A quick stop for a replacement lamp.”

“Bucky! Over here, darling!” a woman’s voice called as soon as they stepped into the store.

“Eliza,” Bucky said with a smile. The woman was wearing a wide brimmed hat and big sunglasses like she was the one who might be recognised and beleaguered with excited fans while going about her daily life. Steve thought the getup made her vaguely reminiscent of Audrey Hepburn.

"It's nice to meet you, ma'am," Steve said, offering his hand because he was raised to be a gentleman, even when rookies put him on the wrong foot by tricking him into haut coture home goods stores where elegant women were waiting with critical eyes. If Bucky had only told him this was what he had planned for the day Steve certainly wouldn't have worn old sweatpants and a faded American Eagle shirt.

"Eliza Barnes," she introduced herself, grasping Steve's hand and eyeing him over her sunglasses charmingly. It was vaguely reminiscent of the time he'd met the owner of the Avengers. Steve felt a little shiver run down his spine as he recalled it. 

Natasha Romanoff had been ten times more terrifying and beautiful than her reputation had led him to believe. And her reputation was pretty astounding to begin with.

Steve might have been half in love with the woman if she hadn't been such a good friend. Or, perhaps, if she hadn't been in love with a man Steve liked and respected almost as much.

"Steve Rogers," Steve managed to say, reminding himself firmly that there was absolutely no way there was any connection between Eliza and Natasha. "Are you Bucky's..." Steve looked back and forth between them. "Sister? Or cousin?" Eliza laughed so loudly other shoppers turned their heads to look. Steve flushed automatically.

"I'm his step-mother, cutie-pie," Eliza said, reaching out to pinch Steve's red cheek.

"Eliza," Bucky complained. "This guy is my captain. Chill it, okay?" 

"Okay, okay," Eliza said, waving her hand dismissively. "Men are so sensitive," she said to herself as she looked down at her phone and started flipping through her image gallery. "You're absolutely right, darling," she said to Bucky, without looking up from the photos. "This is definitely an appropriate cause for an intervention." Steve snuck a glance over the top of her screen and saw that it was his own home she was staring at. He hadn't noticed Bucky taking the pictures but somehow every room had been captured. All the details, or lack-there-of, of his home decor were splayed in hi-res across her screen. 

"Intervention?" Steve said, feeling a little choked. 

"Honey," Eliza said with obvious concern. "You're living in a carboard cut out. I haven't seen so much taupe since the nineties. My accountant's office has more style and panache than this. You deserve better," she said with great conviction.

"You can trust her Steve," Bucky said as if they were discussing something serious and not Steve's Buffalo crashpad. "She won't knock down any walls or anything."

"I don't care if you guys want to redecorate my place," Steve told them both honestly. "Just don't go _too_ crazy. I mean, no zebra print or anything. No gold."

"Darling, please," Eliza said dismissively. "How two thousand and one. I'm calling Rodrigo," She said to Bucky. "We'll want to get the movers there now if we plan to repaint before nightfall." 

"Repaint?" Steve said helplessly, feeling somehow that he'd either made a grave mistake or a great decision.

"As if you can't afford a hotel for a night," Eliza said, already pressing her phone to her ear. "You can even go to the spa, get a message, hit the sauna. Think of it as a little stay-casion. We'll start with the living room furniture." The sales person who had approached them, perhaps to inquire about how long they intended to linger by the entrance of her store, was taken aback only for a second by the dismissive command in Eliza's voice. She was obviously used to strong personalities, given the clientele the shop catered to.

"Right this way," she told them.

Steve watched as Eliza walked ahead. "She's a little..." he whispered to Bucky. 

"Pushy?" Bucky supplied. "Alarming? Intense? Magical? Yes."

"She was rude to that shop girl and kind of condescending, though," Steve said, unsure why he was arguing to Bucky about the guy's step-mother for Christ's sakes. There was just something about Bucky that made Steve want to turn mundane conversations into something more intense. And, also, Steve really hated it when people were rude to shop assistants.

"No one is perfect," Bucky told him with a little shrug. "Also, the employees here get commission. Most of the time when Eliza comes in here she drops thousands of dollars. The girl who's helping her now is going to go home happy, believe me." Steve shrugged, deciding to drop it. Bucky had clearly never worked in retail sales and obviously had no idea how much rude customers could totally ruin a person's day, regardless of what kind of money they were making.

Bucky turned away from the sight of Eliza inspecting furniture on the shop floor to face Steve fully. "Listen," Bucky said seriously. "I don't want you to feel like I sprung this on you but there just won't be time once the season starts and Eliza is traveling to Japan for work soon so I thought the best time to do it would be now."

"Buck, honestly, I don't care what you want to do with my house as long as you don't damage anything. I mean, I don't get why you and Eliza are so obsessed with it but if it makes you happy then just do what you think is best."

Bucky looked at Steve incredulously. "All you ever talk about is Brooklyn. But you've got to live in Buffalo for most of the year. You spend all your time in your house, according to Morita, but you clearly hate it. Why live somewhere that makes you miserable? You have the money to do whatever you want. It bothers me, okay? Watching you just content to be miserable like that. You'll feel better coming home to a place that feels like it's yours. Trust me on this Steve."

"Whatever you say, Buck," Steve said. If Bucky had a project that made him feel useful that was great. Steve doubted if a change of paint would make him feel any better about his life, though. He had more problems in his life than colorless walls and cheap carpets. But of course, there was no way for Bucky to know that and he was trying, in his own way, to do Steve a kindness. It was a gesture of friendship, an offer to take care of Steve in the only way Bucky knew how. Steve could appreciate that.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to my friends Cass and Fox for helping me with this chapter :)

Steve definitely had to admit- the hotel had it’s perks. As it turned out, the proprietors were fans and very gracious about Steve’s bashful request for privacy during his stay. It wasn’t that he didn’t love how happy it made people when he signed autographs. It was just that sometimes he needed to unplug from all that.

New York City was amazing for that. Absolutely no one gave a shit what anyone said about him on ESPN there.

But, as Steve had to keep reminding himself, he was in Buffalo and he needed to stop spending his every other waking thought wishing he wasn’t. It wasn’t fair to himself or the people around him.

Steve took Eliza’s advice too. The massage was amazing and the sauna, while not quite as enjoyable, definitely made him feel like he’d been purified and prepared for the fast approaching preseason.

When he drove up to his house two days later, nothing seemed all that unusual. Sure, it had been professionally landscaped- the two scraggly bushes had been trimmed until they looked sleek and elegant rather than sickly, and there were now carefully spaced flowers and other greenery that somehow made the whole place look more alive. But none of that was too outrageous, not like Steve had braced himself for.

A wind chime sounded softly as Steve stepped out of his SUV to get a closer look at his new garden. He looked up to where it was twirling idly in the window of one of the guest bedrooms on the second floor and felt a sense of peace come over him.

Whatever was inside, Steve knew he would love it. Even if it was gold and zebra striped. He’d love it because the Barnes had obviously cared enough to try to make him happy. And despite their shortcomings when it came to sales people and priorities, the thought and care and kindness it took to invest in a project like this for someone else, with no expectation of reward, was staggering and precious.

The first thing Steve saw when he opened the door was the foyer. It was a stunning cobalt blue with white trim where before it had been whatever yellow-grey color had come with the house when he’d bought it. The coat rack had been replaced by a row of elegant hooks on the wall. Next to this there was a little end table that curved up into a granite bowl for keys and coins. Steve kicked his shoes off onto the rug set off to the side that looked like it had been handmade.

The living room had a massive L-shaped leather couch and a pair of matching armchairs, the old white carpet had been replaced with one in a deep blue, towel-soft and clean. The walls were a light clean gray that made the room feel larger, and fresh.

His flatscreen was gone, replaced by one that had to be at least 60 inches. Steve hadn’t really considered the cost of this little project. Or how wealthy Bucky’s family obviously was- how careless with that wealth. It made him nervous. 

When Steve was growing up there were some months where his mother had had to choose between buying toothpaste and buying socks. Between paying the power bill and paying the water bill. Steve tried his best not to think about his newfound wealth too much outside of showing his mom (and apparently, in fantasy at least) Bucky with gifts he never could have afforded as a younger man.

Turning away from that thought, at least for the moment, he took another look around the room. He hadn’t asked anyone to do this for him. They’d all but held a gun to his head to let him do it. They couldn’t ask him for anything now. Steve shut that thought down even harder than the last.

Art hung on the walls. Real art, from indie galleries and street vendors. There were only a few pieces- more the idea of a collection than a collection itself- and they varied from thick experimental oils to whimsical watercolor portraits.

Steve was speechless. His throat felt tight around all the words he couldn’t say, even if there was someone around to hear them. It wasn’t that he loved the design so much- though he did, honestly think it was chic and beautiful while still being comfortable and practical. 

It was a deep melancholy that was choking him. Because this whole time he hadn’t really believed Bucky and Eliza and now he saw what they meant. He hadn’t been trying. Not when it came to his house and not when it came to a lot of things. He’d gotten complacent and started sliding into the dark place he’d dug for himself when his mom had first been diagnosed. 

More even than that, than the realization that he’d been letting himself linger in unhappiness when he didn’t have to, was the desire to show someone this beautiful place that was his now. Take pictures to send his mom, call over Dum-Dum and Morita and crack open a few beers. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had friends over just because he’d wanted to.

As Steve wandered deeper and deeper into the house admiring all the little touches Eliza and Bucky (and Rodrigo? And possibly teams of other people) had thought to add to his home, he. decided that this would be a fresh start. He would shake off his ennui and do better. Steve was determined to make this a great year for himself and his team.

.. 

The smell of the ice in the First Niagara Center was like nothing else. Adrenalin bubbled up in his blood for the first time in a good long while as Steve lugged his duffel to the locker room. He was ready to get to business and do work again.

“Steve!” Bucky called as soon as the captain stepped into the locker room. “They put my stall next to yours.” Bucky was smiling wide, not one of his calculated camera grins but something wide and authentic and maybe just a little childish. It made him look younger and carefree.

Steve smiled back at him, ignoring the kissy noises False Teeth was making while Jonesy rolled his eyes. “Well good. It’ll give me time to get used to having you on my left since I’m pretty sure that’s where you’ll be every time I take the ice from now on.”  
“Yeah?” Bucky said, that pleased grin widening even further. “Coach say something to you?” 

“Nah,” Steve said, sitting at his stall next to Bucky and knocking the kid’s knee with his own. “But you’ve been killing it at practices and as long as you keep killing it during the pre-season you’re gonna light up the regular season like-”

“The fourth of July?” Dum Dum called out helpfully to the snickers of every other player in the room. Steve rolled his eyes. His birthday was a constant source of ridicule but he could live with that.

With a sigh, Steve pulled his shirt over his head and got down to the business of changing for the game. It was surprisingly easy to tune out his awareness of Bucky’s body while he changed. It was still there, hovering in the periphery of his mind, but no longer a constant distraction. His focus on the task ahead was incredibly helpful.Not every player took pre-season games seriously. But Steve was not that kind of player. 

“You using a new stick?” Bucky asked when he saw Steve struggling with the cloth-textured tape that was meant to be wrapped around the top of the stick handle to improve grip. 

“New season, new stick,” Steve said simply. It was one of his few superstitions. The stick he’d been using leading up to today’s game was still perfectly fine but he just felt better with a fresh start. Every hockey player that made it to the NHL had their little superstitions, their little routines. Even the ones who pretended they didn’t definitely did.

“Here,” Bucky said, holding out his hand. “Let me tape it for you. We’ll be here ‘till Christmas if you keep doing it like that.” Steve rolled his eyes.

“Alright, big shot, show me what you got,” he said, hanging over the whole mess of half-taped stick for Bucky to struggle with. The locker room sounded quieter and Steve looked up to see half a dozen incredulous eyes on him.

“What?” he said, feeling cantankerous in the face of their staring.

“Nothing,” Morey said, holding up his hands. “Just waiting to hear what kind of pre-game speech our great and fearless captain will come up with this time.”

“ _That’s_ how you tape a stick,” Bucky said, handing it back to Steve, who inspected it with a critical eye.

“You did that incredibly fast,” Steve noted, impressed by Bucky’s speed. “But it’s sloppy and the lines are all wrong. No time to re-do it now, though,” he said with a shrug. “I’ll show you the right way later.” Bucky groaned and shoved Steve.

“Perfectionist,” Bucky accused.

“Busybody,” Steve shot back, elbowing him.

“Punk!” Bucky laughed, kicking at his captain.

“Jerk,” Steve said, reaching to ruffle Bucky’s perfectly coiffed hair.

“Sweetheart,” Jonsey said in mock falsetto, clasping his hands and batting his eyelashes at Falsey. 

“Oh, crumpet!” Falsey answered back in kind, putting the back of his hand to his forehead as though he might faint.

“Alright,” Steve said, “Alright guys, let’s get out there and win a game of hockey.” There were some cheers and whoops at that. 

“You’ve really got to work on your motivational speeches,” Bucky muttered to Steve as they waiting, determined to be the last two to leave the locker room. Another little superstition.

“I know,” Steve admitted. “But I figure I’ll worry about it if we’re ever in the playoffs. The guys don’t really need it anyway. It’s more for me.”

…

The Commandos lost to the Avengers. But, on the plus side, they lost way less embarrassing than the last time they played the Avengers so from a certain perspective (not Fury’s or Hill’s or May’s) they were still gaining ground. The home crowd seemed pretty pleased with their performance, at least, even if they weren’t exactly shocked by the outcome.

…

“Do you mind if I come to yours after?” Bucky asked as he ran a towel over his neck, and down his collarbone to collect the last of the water from his shower.

“Yeah,” Steve said, swallowing and trying to regain his pre-game zen about his electric obsession with Bucky’s physicality, with the tantalizing distance between their arms, their shoulders, their legs. “I haven’t been able to get you over since you and Eliza redid the place. I’ve been kind of wanting to talk to you about that actually.”

“You do like it, right?” Bucky said, turning to Steve sharply. “I mean, Eliza’s designs have been in magazines. Parisian magazines. The president’s summer house in Vermont, even. But, I mean, if that’s not what you like then I can get someone else. I mean Eliza has friends-” 

“Bucky,” Steve said, grabbing Bucky’s damp shoulder and turning their bodies so they were closed off to the rest of the room. “I fucking love the house okay? It was a grand gesture. I get that.” Bucky’s lower lip wobbled. His face was so soft, vulnerable and Steve wanted nothing more than to smooth’ his thumbs over Bucky’s cheeks and eyes to ease the tension there.

“No one has ever done anything like that for me before. And it was a lot. And I just kind of wanted to talk to you about why. Uh, you did that. And what you want. To happen, I mean. And from me,” Steve forced himself to say. 

Bucky looked around, paranoid. His body language closed off for a second before Steve saw him relax back into that cocky-charming persona he used in public. 

“We can talk about this later,” Bucky said casually, shouldering his duffel bag. “I’ll meet you at your place,” he muttered before turning and swaggering out of the room. Whoever just left, it wasn't the kind, thoughtful, outrageous but well meaning kid who'd curled under the covers with Steve a few nights ago. It was so frustrating to be so close to talking about whatever this was with Bucky only to have that iron wall come down and be forced to watch James Barnes stroll around in his place.

Steve wiped his hands over his face, groaning. Steve really didn't want this to turn into a fight. Except for how he kind of did, a little. Fights were so much easier to deal with. Fights you could win.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos make the world go 'round friends :)


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There will be a sequel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> un-beta'ed.

“What the fuck were you thinking?!” Bucky shouted as soon as Steve stepped in the door. It was funny, Steve thought, he forgot he gave Bucky that spare key when he and Eliza were redoing the house. Told him to keep it. Dum-Dum had one. Fury had one, though Steve couldn’t remember ever having given it to him.

“You know, I’m shocked it took me this long to realize how immature you are. Some fucking punk eighteen-year-old kid. I let this get way out of hand,” Steve said, tossing his keys in the sculptural granite bowl by the entrance.

“Oh fuck you,” Bucky said, indignant now. “I’m not the one talking about this shit in the fucking locker room in front of the entire team! You might as well have gotten down on one knee with a ring waving a pride flag.” Steve took a deep breath and pinched the bridge of his nose, trying with everything in him to control his temper.

“I’m not having this conversation with you in my hallway.” Bucky scoffed, turning his back on Steve and slipping into the living room. If Steve were in a forgiving mood he’d recognize the closed-off posture, the crossed arms, as another one of Bucky’s patented defense mechanisms. But his mood was frayed and there was a twisted little masochistic ember in his chest that was demanding he not make things easy on either of them.

“You’re a kid,” Steve said as soon as they were facing each other on opposite sides of his fancy new living room furniture. “And I’m your captain. I have power over you. I never should have let things get this far.”

“This far?” Bucky spat. “We held hands once, big fucking deal.”

“You redesigned my entire house!” Steve yelled, really losing his cool now. “I thought it would be a few coats of paint, maybe a throw rug but this… this is way too much. I should never have let it happen. You can’t _buy_ me Bucky.”

“This?” Bucky said, waving his hand around, almost as red in the face as Steve. “This is fucking _nothing_ Steve, okay? For my best friend’s eighteenth birthday you know what I bought him? A fucking cabin on a lakeside property so he and his dad could go fishing without having to worry about renting. I really don’t get why you’re freaking out because I asked my step mother to pick out a few things.”

“This cost thousands of dollars,” Steve argued, his mind still reeling. A cabin. A fucking cabin. Good lord, what could he have walked into if he hadn’t told them not to go crazy?

Bucky just shrugged. “We make millions,” he told Steve as though _Steve_ were the one who was being oblivious. “Plus there’s my trust fund. And Eliza was loaded even before she married my dad. This,” Bucky said, making a lazy gesture that encompassed the room again. “This won’t even make a dent when their accountant balances the books.”

If Steve were a matronly southern lady from a family of good breeding and refined taste, this would surely be the moment when he clutched his pearls and appealed to the good lord for moral, and perhaps even physical, support. As it was, Steve was a hockey player so he cursed faintly, but creatively.

“I don’t get why this is a problem for you,” Bucky said. “Why we have to ‘talk’ about this. It was a friendly gesture, no big deal.”

“A ‘friendly’ gesture?” Steve asked, honestly losing hold of himself. “Do you have any idea what I had to do just to afford skates as a kid? Do you even have a clue what it’s like to play a game on an empty stomach because my mother couldn’t afford both food and medicine that week? I would have fucking killed for this when I was a kid!” Steve said, tears in his eyes. 

“And now you want to hand it to me and pretend like everything is cool, like you don’t want something in return? I’m not for sale!” Steve shouted, wiping violently at his wet eyes. He’d never cried when he was angry before. And that was definitely what he was feeling- anger. He couldn’t afford to feel anything else.

“Steve,” Bucky soothed, stepping forward with his hands out, his eyes so concerned Steve felt like he’d been punched in the stomach as soon as he saw them.

“Don’t touch me!” Steve snapped, batting at Bucky’s hands, weak as a kitten for no rational reason. He wasn’t a starving kid anymore. He was strong now. No one touched him without his permission. He established a reputation as a fighter the second he got into the NHL. No one touched him at all, not since then.

“Steve,” Bucky said, hesitant, “what did you mean when you said ‘what I had to do’?” Objectively Bucky knew hockey was one of the most expensive sports a kid could play. 

And if Steve’s mom couldn’t afford food there was no way they could afford the kind of equipment, the away games, the coaching it would take to get a kid noticed by NHL scouts. The kind it would take to get them within a hair’s breath of being number one in the draft. No amount of raw talent could gap that bridge.

“No,” Steve said, wiping at his eyes again, hoping his vision would stop blurring up like he was driving through the rain, hoping his voice wouldn’t crack and give him away even more. “This isn’t about that. This is about you and your family. The way you spend money like it’s air- like you don’t even notice how you use it every second. The way you just dismiss other people’s feelings. You said you wanted to do this for me, but did you really? Or did you just want to impress me? Want to butter,” Steve’s voice broke. What an embarrassing word for that to happen on. “Butter me up for something?”

“Steve,” Bucky said , seriously, holding Steve at arm's length. When did that happen? “I care about you. A lot. I’m not good at talking about this kind of stuff, not really. Not when it counts, you know? But when I’m with you I feel like… like I fit, you know? I’m not always second guessing myself.

“Before Eliza and my dad got married I wasn’t a popular kid. I was chubby and goofy. My first coach told me I skated like a bucket of lard.”

“Oh my god!” Steve gasped, at the idea of a grown person saying that to a kid who must have been, what? Five? Seven years old? What a prick.

“Yeah,” Bucky said with a half-hearted smile. His thumbs were rubbing deep circles into Steve’s biceps, almost hypnotizing with their slow sure motion. “So here I was, this kid making trick shots but taking forever to get to the net, no friends, not cute. You see this?” Bucky said, pointing to his handsome face with its chiseled features. “Not even a dream in my future. I was such a loser.”

“No one with those eyes could ever be a loser,” Steve said before he could swallow the words. Bucky’s intense blue eyes were one of the things Steve couldn’t get out of his head before he went to sleep, when he was driving to the rink, when he was trying to read the paper. The way they could be light one second and then snap and be dark and serious the next.

Steve blushed and Bucky grinned at him. “Yeah well these baby blues didn’t help me much then. Not ‘till Eliza. I fucking hated her those first few months. Once, she’ll tell you about this if you ever ask, I emptied a can of tuna fish into her favorite pair of Louboutins while she and my father were away for the weekend. 

“I’ve never seen my dad so close to hitting me,” Bucky said nostalgically. “It was a mess. She had to toss the shoes, the maid had to bleach the entire closet to try to get rid of the smell, dry clean all the clothes. 

“So the next day my dad has to fly to DC on some emergency something and Eliza comes to my school and picks me up in the middle of the afternoon. I was half convinced she was gonna dump me off a bridge somewhere but you know what she did? She took me to Saks and helped me pick out my first clothes for myself. Like my mom had always done it before, and then the maid I think, or my dad’s PA or someone. I never really thought about it. And then there was Eliza telling me about tailoring, and fit, and coordination. 

“She probably took me to twenty stores that day. She bought me enough stuff to fill my entire closet and when we got home she made popcorn and opened some Twizzlers and m n’ ms and we had a little party throwing out all my old clothes that didn’t fit or that I didn’t like.” Bucky smiled fondly at the memory. 

“She showed me everything in the garbage bags and she said, ‘The old Bucky is gone now. You can be anyone you want to be.’ I think that was the first time I hugged her. It was the greatest gifted anyone's ever given me. I wanted to give you that but I'm not like Eliza. I couldn't explain right.” Bucky looked in Steve’s eyes, brushing the tears away from his warm cheeks. 

“You can be anyone you want now Steve. The past is dead. You’re here now and that’s all that matters.” Steve broke down and yanked Bucky to him. It wasn’t a gentle hug, it was a life raft hug. It was a last ditch hug. It was the kind of hug that Bucky, for one, had never been on the receiving end of in his life. It was kind of crazy for him to think about as he rubbed Steve’s back. 

Steve was actually right. Bucky was just some eighteen-year-old punk without a clue about the real world pretending at maturity. Having Steve Rogers consistently put more and more of himself in Bucky’s hands was staggering. It was so fucking ill-advised. 

After a few seconds, Steve took a step back and wiped at his face. 

“We can’t do this,” he said, looking at Bucky with heartbreak and an unhealthy dose of determination. Maybe, Bucky reflected, Steve was smarter than he’d been given credit for. “This thing where we flirt with the line,” Steve said. He shook his head. “It’s not good for either of us.”

“You’re right,” Bucky said nonchalantly. He was out of practice with rejection but it was like riding a bicycle. He’d never forget. “We should be friends and teammates, nothing more.” 

“Exactly,” Steve said. “Friends and teammates. We definitely need some distance.”

“Yeah,” Bucky agreed lightly. “I should probably give you this key back.” He dug around in his pocket for the spare key to Steve’s house. 

“Thanks,” Steve said, holding his hand out. “Dum-Dum has a spare if there’s ever an emergency or something.” Bucky nodded. 

“Listen,” Bucky said suddenly, “all that stuff you said about ‘buying you’-” Steve shook his head with a forced little smile and held up a hand.

“Ignore that,” he ordered. “I got out of hand. I shouldn’t have said most of that. Just forget it.”

“Right,” Bucky said, swallowing his heart back down. “Sure. Yeah.”

“Yeah,” Steve said, putting his hands in his pockets and rocking back on his heels.

“So I should probably get going,” Bucky muttered, looking down at his feet, vulnerable in his socks whereas Steve had never taken off his shoes.

“Yeah,” Steve said. “Sure. I just-” he paused, eyeing Bucky critically. “We really are friends, right? Even though we’re not doing anything?”

“Yeah Steve,” Bucky said, wishing someone was actually stabbing him in the face so that he wouldn’t have to have that conversation. “I’m, you know I don’t have a lot of friends. You’re important to me. Even if you never hold my hand again.” The attempt at levity sunk like a body in a trunk that had been pushed into a lake. That perfect moment encapsulated in the darkness, that was sacred ground. Bucky should have kept his mouth shut, he knew that the second he’d said it.

“So I’ll see you later?” Steve asked, half dismissal and half genuine question. 

“Yeah,” Bucky said with conviction and not a little dread as well. “Definitely. I don’t abandon my friends Steve. Not for a reason and certainly not because they don’t want me to blow them.” At that, Steve laughed.

And, at least for the next few weeks, that was the end of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THERE WILL BE A SEQUEL. Please don't hate me.
> 
> I'm marking this complete to comply with the Stucky Big Bang extension deadline. This is about half of what I have planned. Please never fear.
> 
> Kudos and comments? Reviews?

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Art: Between a Puck and a Hard Place](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7926160) by [grainnemhaolx](https://archiveofourown.org/users/grainnemhaolx/pseuds/grainnemhaolx)




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